Cirque du Cleome: Chapter 1
by BlackRoseWidow
Summary: Cleome hassleriana, commonly known as the spider flower, is a species of flowering plant in the genus Cleome of the family Cleomaceae. Together, conjoined as one, not-so-delicate flower Violet Harmon and black widow witch Zoe Benson are known as none other than sideshow attraction: The Cleome Twins.


_**Cleome hassleriana**,_ commonly known as the spider flower, is a species of flowering plant in the genus Cleome of the family Cleomaceae.

Together, conjoined as one, not-so-delicate flower Violet Harmon and black widow Zoe Benson are known as none other than sideshow attraction: **The Cleome Twins.**

**Chapter 1: Patient #HS227: Violet Harmon**

**Sex:** Female  
**Race:** Caucasian  
**Age:** 16  
**Height:** 5'6"  
**Weight:** 119 lbs  
**Place of Residence:** Boston, MA  
**Diagnosis:** Unipolar Depression  
**Time of Admittance:** 4:35 PM; Wednesday, September 24th  
**Physical Condition:** Self-inflicted, horizontal wounds extending up the length of the left forearm, stitched and dressed by medics prior to admittance. Pupils normal. Dopamine, norepinephrine, and serotonin levels all dangerously low.  
**Patient Information:** Patient admitted to deliberate self-harm, but denied all allegations of a suicide attempt. Patient was initially resistant: verbally vulgar, kicking and spitting at orderlies despite moderate weakness due to blood loss. Patient was administered a mild sedative and was then rendered physically docile, though her disposition remained quite vindictive.

"Violet, I'm Doctor Thredson." From across his desk, the clean-cut man peered up at her through large, top-rimmed spectacles. Violet pegged the slim brunette in his early to mid-thirties. Shit brown eyes matched his dull, muddy suit coat, and they teemed with bogus "concern." Or perhaps Vi's conjecture was biased-her father "practicing" in the shrink business, and all. The man had a male bovine's asshole for lips.

"Yeee-up," the cutter muttered to her lap. Her heavy head hung, anchored down by the weight of the sedatives. But even had she not been tranquilized, she would not have granted him the satisfaction of eye contact. "That's what yer nameplate says." The engraved tin was peripherally visible, additionally divulging his forename of Oliver.

The doctor forged a firm grin. "Yes," he said, the single syllable dripping with chagrin. "Well." He straightened hunched posture, folding his hands. "I'd like to welcome you to Briarcliff."

So _that_ was the name of this shit-pit? During the tumult of her tantrum out on the lawn, she'd apparently not seen the sign. But she read the sign from God pretty well: this asylum, riddled with nuns, also doubled as a church-and therefore, she must be in hell.

"Do I get a parade?" the sweet flower scoffed, tilting her chin slightly upward. And to think, she was almost named Sunshine.

"Funny," Thredson lied, though his smile now seemed more authentic. "Now, I realize it'd be quite naive of me to expect you to _enjoy_ your stay here with us. Nobody likes being sick."

His "sympathy" was all that was sickening. Pity was so damn pathetic.

The therapist leaned forward with purpose, his smooth voice infused with great merit. "And I hope you know that that's what you are, Violet-sick. _Sick_-and not crazy." He lifted an elbow to his desk, pressing three fingertips to his temple. "Depression's a medical illness. The wiring in your brain has turned faulty, and that certainly isn't your fault." Shaking his head, his eyes remained stationary. "It's not your fault." The man could've aimed for an Oscar; _he_ was the one who should've moved to LA.

"Hah!" The teen threw her head back to cackle, likely startling him in the process. She did not bother to check. The sudden shift in her chair gave her vertigo, the drugs having inflated her with helium from the neck down. Once she regained her stability, a twisted smirk danced on her lips. "Just another piece of shit _floatin'_ through my gene pool, huh?" She carelessly threw up her hands, wincing briefly at her left wrist's impact on her thigh. "..._Thanks,_ Mom and Dad!"

Overcome with abrupt revelation, Thredson's lips fell slightly ajar. Two digits dropped from his temple, but his pointer finger firmly remained. "Let's talk about your parents."

Violet unconsciously pursed her thin lips. Her reflex response would be: "_Mind your own business,"_ but some unknown force intervened. Perhaps a spark of the patient's frayed wire, or possibly simply the meds. They _did_ have her lips feeling looser... Either way, she did feel inclined to dump on him the steaming pile of shit that was her home life. "They tried to make me move. To California."

The doctor opened a drawer. His hands reemerged, now equipped with a pen and a notepad. He started to scribble, posthaste. "And you didn't want to," he gathered the obvious.

"Don't get me wrong," Violet said, dismissing the invite for sarcasm. "I hate it here. This town's a shit-hole." She stated it as fact, not opinion. "...But it's _my_ shit-hole." Her voice slightly softened, a gleam of nostalgia glistening in her amber orbs. "Y'know? I grew up here." _Ugh,_ she thought. _Don't get all mushy._

They mutually locked eyes for the first time as Thredson glanced up from his notepad. Apparently touched, he then planned to speak, sights set to soothe the wilted bud. The dollar signs seemed to fade from his eyes, almost as if he gave a genuine fuck. But suddenly, Vi deferred him. Her caramel, doe eyes saw red.

"But they don't give a fuck about anyone but _themselves."_ She shook her head, long russet locks bouncing with it. Her eyes drifted up to framed plaques on the wall, and her fragile, frail fists clenched in fury. "Them and their stupid fight," she seethed through grit teeth. Her bottom lip quivered with anguish. It may have been selfish, but nevertheless-didn't their daughter's vote count?

Violet could hear the pen scratching, etching her woes down in ink. But the sound of it was soon silenced, replaced with the doctor's cool tone. "What did they fight about, Violet?" Thredson eased, gently.

It made her stomach churn to recount the tale every time. "My mom had a miscarriage," Violet revealed. "My dad couldn't cope. Some people drink; some people smoke." She shrugged. "My dad's anti-drug was the _pussy_ of his twenty-one year old student."

The seasoned practitioner skillfully held back a flinch.

The cutter took to her feet, cotton blue patient gown flowing as she paced. "I don't see the point," she vented to the southbound wall. "Even against the tropical postcard backdrop of _LA,"_ she mocked, waving her loose, lanky arms, "they'll still be buried in snow, back in Boston. They'll still have the memory of my dad's frigid heart." Apparently, drugs morphed her into a poet. Her favorite bands made even more sense now. "I've told them a _hundred_ times, this move would be a waste of time and money." She froze, then spun on her heels to face the watchful therapist. Her lax throat constricted and tear ducts swelled thickly. "No change of scenery can salvage them."


End file.
